


What Lies At the End

by AnAntTM



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Deus Ex Machina, F/M, Major Character Injury, Resurrection, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13880982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnAntTM/pseuds/AnAntTM
Summary: As Alm draws closer to the Falchion and his ultimate goal of stopping Duma, one obstacle stands in his way: a familiar face... yet unfamiliar in nature.A rewrite idea I've had that started with my girlfriend's idea. I found out the original plan for the Act 5 scene was to be a defensive map, where Alm would have to survive against Celica (there's battle voice lines for a Witch!Celica and an unused map in the Duma Temple). I thought that idea would have been much more interesting than a cutscene that the game literally spoils for you right in the beginning. Stop with premonitions for FE, I beg of y





	What Lies At the End

…. It was a cold, damp and musky aroma that would slowly creep up when least expected. The kind that would plague a campfire tale, used to set the scene or wet the pants of any frightened children, except this was very much real. As he climbed each stairs, Alm couldn’t help but hear an ominous, yet melodious echo as his steps pounded against the milky blue steps. 

‘Almost at the top….’ He thought to himself. The Temple of Duma had been one obstacle after another. From continuously reproducing eyeball monsters, to followers of the dark god attempting to find their next sacrifice… Alm had felt as if he’d seen it at all at this point. And yet, here he was. Alone, cold, with nothing but the sword at his hilt and the shield emblazed across his forearm. Separated from his army, his friends and trusted companions, all because the damned god demanded only the one with the brand may ascend the tower. 

‘Falchion…’ he told himself, ‘Celica needs me...’ were his only words of motivation as he treaded the staircase that felt like an eternity. His exhaustion had reached maximum levels, but can he be blamed? As “trials” to prove himself worthy of the dragon’s bane, he had to face hordes of the undead alone. It was draining, both physically and emotionally. But nonetheless, he trudged on.

When he felt as if his legs were about to give way, he reached a clear opening. Light shone through, creating a complete juxtaposition of the murky, dull environment of the stairs. It was a vast hallway, with stone pillars showing years of wear and tear (truth be told, it was a miracle they even were able to stand up at all from how worn they looked). But that wasn’t the main “attraction” to this room. In the middle of the hallway, there rested a massive skull, much larger than that of any animal. Lodged firmly in where its temple should be, protruded a large blade; its hilt was that of a slick, glossy golden texture, with a matching hilt and cross section. 

There was no doubt about it. This had to be the Zofian goddess, Mila, herself with the Falchion that… that his father had used to seal her. (Curse you, Rudolph… curse you for dropping this burden on the son who he had abandoned seemingly at birth.) But now was not the time to worry about his father’s dying wishes; all that mattered now was claiming the blade and rescuing Celica from the dark god’s clutches.

… It was almost as if the world had known what he was thinking. Down the hallway, from an entrance obscured by the darkness, a clamoring echo resounded throughout the room. It was faint at first, then grew louder and louder; it sounded almost like the sounds of someone walking on heels… Wait a second.

Before even turning around, he knew who would be there to greet him. It was Celica, still as radiant as ever. Her soft, pale complexion contradicted by her rosy cheeks; her flowing, pinkish red hair; her hands that provided a false sense of delicacy, as they could soon be used to summon a fire ball the size of one’s head… but why was her hand moving towards the hilt of her sword? Looking up at her, a puzzled expression plastered cleanly across Alm’s visage, he was met with a vacant look, almost as if she hadn’t even registered that he was there.

“Celica…?” his voice was quiet, matching the disbelief upon his face. Something was wrong, very, very wrong. But what? Unless…

A loud grunt escaped the almost husk-like body of Celica, quickly followed by the loud clanging of freshly forged steel escaping its sheath prison. She held the blade out in front of her, the intention as clear as a blue sky on a summer’s day: the blade was meant to pierce Alm.

In the moment of confusion and chaos, Alm managed to unsheathe his own sword; but not before hearing an awful laugh that sounded almost like a cacophony of screeching crows. Gods make it stop… and it would have if the Beloved Zofia had cut through like she had wanted it to. 

Almost as if at the last second, Alm raised up his Royal Sword, blocking the hit. A loud sound clamored through the room as the silver clashed silver. Blow after blow, Celica kept charging at him, her attacks seemingly without end. There was no way he could hit her, he refused. He can’t hurt the one he held so dear… 

Parry, slash, parry, slash. These were all the motions and sounds that were heard in the now empty room; the source of the ominous laugh now having seemingly vanished. How long could she keep this up for? So… tired…

“… lm!” a distorted cry shouted out into the ensuing darkness. 

‘Eh?’ Alm pondered, his thoughts focusing solely on parrying; for who knows what would happen to him if he let his guard down. Or worse. What would… happen to her. 

Blocking another heavy swing of the sword, the same cry echoed throughout the chaos, only this time it sounded much clearer. It was… it was Celica!

“…. Alm!” cried Celica despite her husk-like state of being. “Alm… p-please…” 

Her voice was weak, as if every word pained her to her deepest core. She was fighting the possession, a little part of her still remained amidst Duma’s darkness. There was a chance… a chance to save her. For the both of them to walk away from this, to make amends for the wrongs he’s done her because of this war… to her people, her country, to her… 

She was in there… somewhere. Damn it, she was. He knew it, he could HEAR her! This was stupid, a horrible move. Hell, probably even a suicidal one… but he didn’t care. He had to know for himself. … And so, he tossed the Royal Sword aside. His shield going along with it. Celica was in there, Duma didn’t have her under his completely control. Maybe if he didn’t pose a threat to her… she’d drop her weapon.

Walking forward slowly, he raised his hands in surrender. His mind was screaming at him, begging for him to stop. “Go back. Grab your weapons… this isn’t her.” But he couldn’t listen… or perhaps he found it not worth listening to? What kind of world would he even find without her in it…? A sad, lonely one, that’s for sure. Damn it all to hell. That wasn’t a world he was willing to live in. 

He made his choice.

“I don’t… want to hurt you. Just put the sword down and we can talk… I just want to help you.” His voice wasn’t steady, there was a shakiness to it and it was obvious he was attempting to mask his fear over the situation. This is stupid. Very, very stupid.

“I don’t…. want to h… hurt you, A… Alm” Her expression was pained, she couldn’t even meet his eyes at this point.

Alm was as close to her as he could possibly be; he placed his right hand on her shoulder, offering up a warm smile of forgiveness. They could forget this happened, they could move on, they could… they could find a way. Someway, somehow to be rid of Duma. To free her from her prison inside herself.

“Please, Celica… It’s me! It’s… It’s Alm. Please… Please come home. We… *I* miss you.” 

“Alm..? C… Can you do me a favor..?”

“What? Of… Of course! I’d do anything for you, Celica! What is it..?”

“Do it… Alm. Kill me… before I kill… y-” Her voice came to a chilling halt; not a mouse stirred all throughout the hall. Were Alm a smarter man, he would’ve noticed her hand slowly moving forward just barely visible in his line of sight… It was too late, Alm’s eyes widened as the sword pierced through his armor and made a deep, puncturing wound in his side near his hip.

A loud, pained grunt echoed throughout the chamber as he staggered backwards. The blade having now escaped its new home, all that it had left behind was a red gash mark; the crimson liquid slowly crawled its way through its opening, his undershirt dampening and staining with his blood. His eyesight became blurry, his breathing heavy… the only solace left in the world for him was he could finally be at peace… if it wasn’t for this damned rough surface he was pressed up against.

… Though it appears that peace would not last for long. Stepping forward, the witch masquerading as Celica stepped forward. He gulped hard, his face now peppered with drops of sweat falling to and fro; his messy hair now all but covering his eyes… he couldn’t see, but he knew what was coming. He’d made his choice after all... hadn’t he?

“Haha… didn’t really think it would ever come to this, huh?” he spat out a bit of blood and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “Mycen taught you well… That’s not Duma blessing you. You don’t need it.” 

“…..” The witch hesitated for a moment. How odd. She seemed to be reacting a little… more positively to his words? At the very least she isn’t trying to gut him again. For now.

“I know you’re in there, Celica. This isn’t you… this never was you. I don’t want to hurt you… and I know you don’t. The real you, you’re not Duma’s servant. You’re Celica… a priestess of Mila. You’re our friend… You mean so much to us, to me. Please…” a grunt of pain escaped his lips, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. A daring, yet utterly foolish move on his part… for he had taken to standing up, forcing the witch to move back a few steps.

This plan was stupid, he knew it was. But really, what choice did he have now? Turning his head to the side for a brief moment, his suspicions had been confirmed: in the chaos ensuing the attack, he’d been pushed back far enough to reach the deceased goddess. However, it appeared… almost different than he’d last seen it. There was a faint glow coming from the Falchion impaling the Earth Mother. It almost… was calling to him, as if it wanted him to reach for it…

Mustering the very last bit of his, he gripped the hilt of the Falchion. His grip was clumsy, barely even holding onto the blade as his back was to it… but he couldn’t risk facing away from the witch. Underneath his heavy breath, he spat out a prayer to Mila, to any god that would hear him… 

His eyes shut, he cried out yet again in pain as he began to pull out the divine blade; the rocky prison surrounding the blade began to crack and crumble… soon the Falchion had been freed at last after having been trapped in the Earth Mother for so long. The blade of legends… the bane of evil. Duma would certainly get an “earful” from Alm after all this was over. That is… if he could make it out alive. 

The blade was slick and sheen, having a grandiose hilt and pommel; despite this all, it felt comfortable in his hands. Holding it forward as a defense, he didn’t want to hurt Celica… he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. 

But she clearly paid no mind to who she hurt. Duma’s hold on her was too strong, even if she could fight him, it was clear as day she had no chance of winning. A tear rolled down his cheek, his voice was barely above that of a hushed whisper; he doubted anyone could hear it, but gods he hoped it was heard.

“Mila… Please… if I don’t make it… save her… I beg of you…”

… And so he charged, slashing. The Falchion connected, grazing at the back of her hand… a minor wound he was sure could be patched right up. Just as he’d hoped, the Beloved Zofia fell from her hand. Though curiously, as the blade connected with her body, a loud ear piercing screech echoed throughout the hall, following by a blinding white light. 

When the light had all but vanished, Alm found himself laying on his back; propping himself up, he looked around the hall… until he saw what was happening: just above him, was Celica. She was struggling for a moment, until a noise much like a whisper filled the room… it was soothing, sweet and comforting, much like a mother hushing her child to rest for the day was over. 

. . . !

It couldn’t be… but who else could be doing such a thing? It was… It was Lady Mila! She’d returned to the world after so much pain, suffering… and loss. A miracle was happening before his very eyes, as a gentle lullaby began to echo in his ears… what a lovely melody.

Up above, Celica however was having quite the opposite reaction. Loud screams of pain and agony ensued, her body contorting and twisting in such horrid matters… until they finally stopped, one final scream louder than anything he’d ever heard was allowed to escape… followed by a sickly mist of purple clouds evaporating into the wind. 

Her body gradually floated down next to him, she appeared to be unconscious for the moment. It seemed like everything was finally over. In his moment of relief and exhaustion, he hadn’t even noticed… the pain in his hip had subsided, even the wound was gone.

Little glimmers fell gently on top of them, much like a soothing rain after a long heat wave. Alm found himself cradling Celica while she rested… and as if to confirm his suspicions that everything had been resolved, she had practically clung to him in her sleep. ‘Ah hah… just like old times’ he thought.

A dumb grin had made its home upon his face, as he looked up at the twinkling glimmers that cascaded around them. His voice was strained with exhaustion, he needed his rest too now. But what kind of gentleman doesn’t thank his Mother for the help she has provided him?

“… Thank you, Lady Mila. Rest easy now…” And then his eyes fell shut.


End file.
